People typically consider cultural preservation to be something that is conducted on a large scale. It is generally placed in the context of institutions, archives, or official documents. But it can also happen on a smaller, personal scale.
I have been making a series of handmade zines that are based on Iban culture and history. Each page of these zines pairs a drawing with a text of information or a poem. The drawings are hand-drawn, and the pages are put together painstakingly, one at a time. Every decision, from picture placement to word space, needs to be carefully considered. The whole thing is done entirely by hand.
While working on these pages, I learned that preservation is more than just keeping information intact. It also has to do with how that information is passed on. The information in these zines is not new. They have been told before, and they exist in oral histories, family accounts, and old literature. What I do is simply place them into a different form.
For instance, in these sketchbook pages, I talked about why the Ibans practiced headhunting in the past. It’s a difficult topic that people often misunderstand or only see one side of. I give it context instead of simplifying it. Each section describes a specific reason or belief and is paired with a hand-drawn drawing of an Iban warrior instead of an abstract idea. When I draw, it influences how I feel about the subject. When I sketch a figure, I pay attention to details that I would otherwise overlook.
This zine doesn’t attempt to be a full record of the Iban history. It keeps some parts of it. The imperfections in the pages are part of that process. They show that it was created by hand, with time and care. In this regard, preservation isn’t only about accuracy or completeness. It’s also about continuity, working with it, and allowing it to exist again in the present.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
What is one word that describes you? Just one word? If it’s only a word, then I feel it seems too narrow for something that changes as much as a person. One word makes it sound like something is set in stone. I don’t think I’ve ever been that. I sat with it for a while to find the right word. Finally, the word that came to mind was “return”.
It’s less about a return to something untouched and more about picking up something I set down for a while. I’ve found myself reaching for my sketchbooks again in the past few weeks.
I go through old paintings, rewrite poetry, change the margins, and print pages. The tasks are simple but they require my full attention. Every little decision affects the outcome and time passed by silently as I focused on each task.
I recently blogged about the process of producing my zines and art cards. These are real and tangible things and unlike digital work, this is a slower way of working and nothing happens instantly. That post was a result of sitting at the table and crafting the zines, whereas this post is when I start to let them go and release them to the world. It’s been a while since I last put my work out on Etsy. I went on a hiatus when other things in life got in the way.
However, my art sat there waiting for me to return and produce something for the shop. It feels odd to come back to it now. I need time to readjust and relearn how to do some of the things, like working on Canva. I don’t want to make everything at once. I’m putting together one zine at a time, assembling each one carefully. I don’t force myself or think too far ahead on future projects. It is enough to just work on what is in front of me. So, I launched my Etsy shop again today.
It sits there quietly for now with five simple listings. All of them are the printable versions of my zines. They sit there waiting for the algorithm to index them and finally appear on the search results. No matter how excited and proud I am about them, I don’t feel the need to announce it loudly to the world. The act of listing them on the shop and making them public is enough for me.
I realized how familiar the process felt as I worked on the listings. The tasks of writing descriptions, picking titles, and putting pages in order are the things I have done in the past. However, I’m doing things now with a different way of thinking. There is less doubt while making small decisions and I go through them without overthinking.
The work itself hasn’t changed much. It is still made of the same things: words, ink, graphite, and paper. What has changed is my approach to it. I’m not trying to make something big and complicated. I’m just working on one zine at a time, finishing it, and moving on to the next.
There are still certain things that are unclear. I don’t know how people will react to it or how often I will add more listings. Right now, I’m not trying to answer those questions. I just let it be and do not stress myself about the outcome. For now, I am here again, sitting at the table, working on my art and poems. The shop is open and life flows on. It all feels like a “return” or homecoming, somehow.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
I’ve been spending a lot of time working with paper lately. It starts off quietly. I look through my folders to find a drawing that fits. After that, I edit the poem that goes with it. Then comes the layout of the page. My table slowly fills with printed sheets waiting to be assembled into small booklets. I sit down to adjust a margin or review a page, and before I know it, the afternoon is gone. The work is simple, but it needs careful attention.
For the past few weeks I have been turning some of my drawings and poems into small zines. I created many of these pieces years ago and stored them in sketchbooks or folders. Putting them all together in a small printed booklet makes it feel like they have a place to sit next to each other. The format is modest. A4 pages, folded and stapled. Seeing my drawings and words in the same space makes me feel pleased and grateful.
There are a lot of minor adjustments that need to be made to get them ready for printing. These include the order of the pages, margins, and size of the paper. I just learned about “bleed,” which is a small extension of color that goes past the edge of the page so that the final cut doesn’t leave a white border. It’s a small technical detail, only a few millimeters wide, but learning about it helped the process move more slowly. When you start to notice these little things, the work becomes more purposeful.
In addition to the zines, I’ve also been making art cards out of some of my drawings. These are small reproductions of older works I made over the years. Some are colorful illustrations from past projects, and others are drawings in graphite. They look different when you print them on postcards. They don’t seem like things from a sketchbook anymore but something that I can now share with the world.
I start to see how different the work has been when I lay it out on the table. Next to quiet graphite portraits, there are bright, fun drawings. Cultural drawings next to fun characters. Each of these drawings belongs to a different moment in time.
There is a rhythm of simple tasks that goes into making these small prints and booklets: looking through the files, assembling the booklets, and sending them to the printer. Waiting. When the printed copies come, open the package. Looking through the pages to make sure everything is in the right place.
I received the first set of zines yesterday afternoon. They came back with some problems. The paper was thin, and the binding looked like it was done quickly and poorly. I took out the staples, added a thicker sheet to the covers, and then stapled them back together. These are just prototypes but holding them in my hands made the work feel more real.
There is something absorbing about the physical nature of these steps. The papers were stacked on the desk. The smell of fresh prints. And the newly folded booklet along the middle line.
While I work on these small paper projects, time moves slowly in the background. I only notice it when the light in the room changes or when I see that the stack of pages next to me has gotten smaller. The poems and drawings slowly settle into their places. The cards are lined up on the table. The zines rest in a small pile, ready for the next step.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
Tomorrow is the soft launch of Akar Kita Abadi, the group exhibition I’ve been preparing for the past few weeks. I will exhibit several of my Iban heritage poems called Rituals and Rivers, and holding these printed booklets, which just arrived, feels like a confirmation of all the time spent writing, editing, and polishing. This little booklet (or zine) has 10 poems from a much bigger collection of Iban heritage poetry that I want to publish in 2026. I will be selling these booklets during the exhibition and they are quite limited in number. I will share more about the exhibition after the launch tomorrow. I can’t share pictures until after the launch so I can’t really say much about the whole thing. The exhibition will last until 23 November so if you’re in Klang Valley, you may want to drop by and give us your support.
While this exhibition marks the beginning of sharing that collection publicly, another project has started to take root in parallel. I have begun working on a new zine that will focus entirely on Iban women. This project seems like a continuation of Rituals & Rivers, but through a more personal viewpoint. It will look at various facets of Iban womanhood, from ancient times to the present.
Every page will be hand-drawn using pencil and black fine liners, but for the actual zine they will be edited and printed. Drawing by hand has a grounding effect, allowing each line to have its own rhythm and imperfection. The only printed text will be the longer passages and explanations, saving space while keeping the design balanced. I have not planned the number of pages or illustrations yet. I like to let the process evolve spontaneously. Each piece generally begins as a poem or a brief reflection before taking on a visual shape.
One of the first illustrations is inspired by women who sing to the moon as their laughter threads through the bamboo. Another drawing shows the anak umbung, the daughter of an Iban war leader who was raised apart from others and taught weaving skills. Her story has stayed with me, serving as a reminder of the beauty and self-control that once entwined women’s lives. There is also a drawing of a woman tending to the hearth before dawn. These aren’t big moments; they’re small actions that show tenderness, duty, and strength in Iban women.
This new zine will be based on the same ideas as Rituals & Rivers, but it will focus more closely on the daily and the personal. It will explore what it means to be an Iban woman across generations, including the traditions that are passed down, the unspoken resilience, and the actions that connect one life to another. It’s a way for me to listen to the voices of the women who came before me and to honor how their spirit still lives on in us now.
I don’t know what the completed zine will be like, but I know it will develop slowly, page by page, just like stories used to do, with care and patience.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
It was never loud between us. Our love never needed proof. Just subtle signs. A gaze that lasted too long. A jacket shrugged off without being asked. How his silence moved toward mine and made room.
We live above the bookstore near the station. The one with crooked shelves and a leaking pipe that drips near the poetry section. On quiet mornings, I wake first. The kettle whispers steam. He is still asleep, half-buried in the blankets, one arm flung across my side of the bed. I write before the city wakes up. One lamp on. My pen moves slowly and carefully across the page because some mornings are fragile.
Some days, we walk to the cafe where we first met. The one where the windows get foggy, and I forgot a pen once. He never mentions that he kept it. Never asks why I replaced it. But he returns it anyway, weeks later, as if it was never gone. The pen, not the moment we shared.
We have a habit of not explaining. He says it once, at the door, without turning around.
We often stroll to Yanping Riverside Park. It is our routine. We never call it that, but we keep coming back to it. On quieter days, we walk under trees that offer more than just shade. Kids dart past on scooters, while we walk slowly. His hand near mine. Sometimes he stops at the railing and looks at the river. I can feel him and the constellation he carries between us.
I learn to read his silences. The way he checks the locks twice. The way his eyes drift when he’s too tired to pretend. I never think of his silence as distance. It’s a huge part of the whole.
We don’t talk about forever. We just stay.
There are rooftops and rain, the wind carrying jasmine from someone else’s balcony. Matcha soft-serve he buys without asking. The way he looks at me when I hand him a poem. How he holds it like a feather.
We don’t make any promises. But he and I stay.
He once told me that being around me hurt him like a third lung. I don’t say anything. I just trace my thumb over his knuckles and let the silence remain. There are no anniversaries. No statements. Just the ritual of being there.
He catches me when I slip on uneven pavement. His fingers wrap around my arm like the answer to the questions I’ve been too scared to ask. He says, “I guess I’m here to catch you.” I smile and file that sentence in the back of my mind, where the most important things live.
Our life together isn’t always perfect. We fight. We turn our backs in sleep. But we stay. He doesn’t save me. I don’t save him. We just stop pretending we don’t need each other.
And in this world we’ve carved our lives into, the silence isn’t absence—it’s alive, trembling like a living thing.
Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.
This is my 102nd post on this blog. I could’ve gone deep and reflective, writing about growth or gratitude or my journey so far. Instead, I’m giving you a man with water jugs and what appears to be a very confident, very unnecessary “thing” between his legs.
I was just going about my day when I came across a picture of this Roman mosaic while scrolling through Instagram. It was a harmless scroll and the account is offering historical tidbits. I thought I would see broken pottery, ruins, and maybe a few faded frescoes or ancient skulls and stuff. I didn’t expect this guy would be there.
It was a mosaic of a man carrying water jugs with the confidence of someone who knows he’s being watched. His muscles flexed, and his hips are a little tilted. I guess he is the original water influencer? But what really caught my attention and shamelessly wouldn’t let go?
His private part. Yup.
It was not a bulge smacked in between his legs. It was exposed. Damn. How scandalous. A big, bold mushroom swinging like a pendulum between his thighs. I looked at the screen for a long time, about thirty seconds, before whispering to myself, “But why?”
Was it supposed to be a symbol? A warning? A flex? A symbol of fertility? Or was it an inside joke from an ancient Roman tile maker who was just trying to make a boring work order more spicy? Imagine the scenario. The customer probably said, “Make it tasteful.” The artist replied, “Got it.”
The mosaic seems to have been the entrance to the caldarium, or hot water pool, in Menander’s House in Pompeii. That makes it even better. Can you picture walking into a spa and being met by a man with jugs in hand and a strange mushroom situation?
Welcome to the ancient Roman hot baths, where the water isn’t the only thing that’s hot. This might seem a little out of character for me, since I usually write about personal reflection and cultural memory. But really? Sometimes life puts a mushroom between your legs and dares you not to laugh. And at that point, you just give in and be silly. So just chill.
But after I stopped laughing (and I mean really stopped; it took a while), I became curious. Why would a Roman artist make a mosaic of this? Sure it wasn’t just for fun, right? So I asked ChatGPT and this is where things get interesting:
Art historians think that what we’re laughing at could be a waterskin, which is a leather pouch used to hold liquids. They were often shaped like penises (I don’t know why) and people carried them between their legs to keep their hands free.
So, no, it might not be an ancient anatomical exaggeration but a useful accessory. But still, they could have shaped it differently. I think many people are aware that the Romans were no strangers to sexual symbols. Their art, buildings, and even things around the house often included:
Phallic symbols as a sign of fertility, power, or protection (yewww).
Mosaics of sex in bathhouses, bedrooms, and garden walls (cringe).
And a general cultural comfort with the human body that was much less squeamish than our modern-day society.
Some historians say that mosaics like this at the entrance to the caldarium could have been:
A fun reference to the sensuality of bathing culture.
A good luck charm that kept evil spirits away (phallic images were thought to do this. Imagine a wife saying this to her hubby, “Honey, I think the place is haunted; why don’t you strip down?”) But I digress.
Romans weren’t shy. Their bathhouses were shared, their jokes were dirty, and their art was often obscene. So, it could be a waterskin or a nod to something more suggestive. The fact that it’s not clear might be the whole point.
And you know what? That makes me love this mosaic even more. Maybe it wasn’t just meant for wall decoration. It could have been a reminder to not take life too seriously. We should own our stride, haul our jugs with pride, and march into the steam with a suspiciously shaped mushroom and not a hint of shame in our hearts.
Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.
My kids are older now. I’ve long moved past the stage of yelling. Through years of learning and reflection, I’ve softened. I still scold my kids when needed, but never in the uncontrolled way I used to when I was younger and overwhelmed. That part of me has grown quieter. But the memory? It still lives somewhere inside me, not to shame me, but to remind me of how far I’ve come.
I remember one particular moment when I yelled at my daughter. This happened many years ago. Later that evening, I sat on the edge of the bed, silent. My hands remained tightly clenched. My throat still raw. And my heart? That was the worst part. It stung with guilt and regret I’d experienced too often. When I saw her small shoulders shake, I wanted to swallow every hurtful word and undo my mistakes. But, of course, that’s not how time works.
I remembered a post I wrote not long ago, This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be. Those words came from the same place where this printable affirmation was born: a dull aching between failure and love, a desperate desire to do better, to be more patient, to un-yell the things we shouted when we were too exhausted or too raw.
This new art piece—Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide—came from reading late-night Reddit posts written by exhausted mothers. Posts full of remorse and shameful confessions. Most of these women probably didn’t need guidance. They just needed someone to sit next to them and say, “I know. I was there too.”
In the illustration, I drew a mother and child surrounded by waves. Above them, the sun and moon coexist, as if to indicate that both light and shadow belong together. It was my way of acknowledging that we all have both. The love that rocks us, and the exhaustion that drags us down. There are days we sing, and there are days we snap. And still, our bond endures. It may be bruised and tender. But never broken.
I wanted this printable affirmation to serve as a comforting presence in someone’s home. Not in a Pinterest-perfect way, but in the way love still finds its way in—despite the irritation, despite the frustration.
We don’t talk enough about these moments. When we talk about motherhood, we often focus on the good things while ignoring the difficult ones that come with a lot of guilt. The moments when we despise ourselves for our tone, for slamming doors, for causing disconnection when all we wanted was to connect. We show up for our kids with snacks, schedules, and crafts, but we sometimes forget to show up for ourselves. We forget that we are human, too.
And this is what I want this piece to convey: You are not alone. You are not defined by your worst moment. You are a mother, and that is the most human thing of all.
If you’ve ever whispered apologies through the crack of a bedroom door…
If you’ve sobbed in the bathroom, wondering why your patience never seems to last…
If you’ve ever thought, “This is not the mother I was meant to be”…
Then I hope that this printable affirmation for moms speaks to you.
Because our bond with our children isn’t defined by one bad day. Or even a hundred. It’s shaped by the “rhythm of return”: the apologies, the “I love yous,” the bedtime cuddles even after chaos.
Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide is now available in my Etsy shop, Olivia’s Atelier. You can print this motherhood affirmation for your desk, your mirror, your journal, or your wall. Let it be a companion and a reminder. A safe place to land when everything else feels hard.
Because you, mom, are still growing and changing. And love? It never stops trying.
There are days when the world seems too loud. These are the days when the to-do lists keep getting longer, the dishes in the sink continue to accumulate, and the little, quiet voice within gets lost behind all we should be doing. I created Be Brave for such days, for myself, and perhaps for you as well.
It began because I wanted to release the stress that had been quietly mounting. I was feeling overwhelmed by the need to be everything to everyone. I remember sitting at my cluttered table late one night, the old fan humming in the background, the room dimly lit. Everyone else was asleep. Without hesitation, I let my pencils and brush move over the paper, filling it with flowing lines, swirls of color, and words that had been ringing inside me: be brave. Don’t hide. You are cherished. You are special. And as the drawing took shape, I felt lighter.
Be Brave is more than a fancy drawing; it’s a reminder. A peaceful companion who doesn’t expect anything from you. It exists to hold space for you to gather your courage. I wanted this piece to be a whisper rather than a shout. I wanted it to blend into your space, like sunshine streaming through a window or the soothing sound of a familiar tune. I wanted it to be an art that makes you pause, breathe, and be kind to yourself.
I think of this piece as a love letter to all women, not just mothers. To the weary mother who worries if she is doing enough. To the dreamer who keeps showing up for her work and her family, even on the hard days. And to any woman who, at quiet moments, doubts her worth or hides parts of herself, despite her incredible strength within. The words weaved within the artwork—courageous, treasured, lovable, don’t hide—are things I needed to hear myself. Words that I had long forgotten belonged to me too. And I know I’m not alone in this. Whether you’re raising children, pursuing a passion, caring for others, or simply trying to care for yourself, Be Brave was created to accompany you in those moments. It becomes a reminder that bravery isn’t loud or flashy. Often, it is in the mundane, steady ways that we keep going and choosing ourselves, even when it is difficult.
Every swirl, dot, and word in Be Brave was hand-painted. There’s something grounding about that process. It felt like I was putting together all of the pieces of myself that had been scattered. I used brilliant, deep colors: rich pinks to reflect tenderness and vulnerability, yellows for strength and resilience, and teals for emotional clarity and inner peace. Each stroke was a color-coded memory, pulled from places I’ve been and emotions I’ve carried. What about the doodling style? That’s my way of playing, allowing art to be flawed and human, just like us.
I’m creating this artwork as a printable wall art in my shop, Olivia’s Atelier. And because it’s a printable, Be Brave becomes whatever you need it to be. A reminder on your office wall, a present for a friend or for yourself, because sometimes we’re the ones who need reminding the most.
Have you been needing a gentle reminder today? If so, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you let on, or maybe you just need someone to say: you’re doing okay. Perhaps you have felt invisible, worn out, or unsure. I hope Be Brave reminds you that you already do far more than you give yourself credit for. That you’re allowed to take up space, to rest, to dream, and to begin again. My drawing is a reminder to myself and to you that we don’t have to be perfect. All we need to do right at this moment is to be present and create small moments in our day that remind us that we’re still evolving and growing, and that is a beautiful, brave thing.
If this piece speaks to you, I invite you to check out Be Brave in my Etsy shop. It’s a heartfelt printable made from original hand-painted art, designed for mothers, dreamers, and every woman who needs a reminder of her strength.
Olivia’s Atelieroffers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.
The other night, when the house had settled into its usual silence, I sat alone with a cup of tea that had gone cold without me knowing it. Not only was I weary from the day’s routines and tasks, but I was also drained from the burden of my thoughts. I stared at the cup for a time, allowing myself to sit. There was no to-do list going through my thoughts. There’s no strategy for what happens next. Just me, solitude, and a reminder that sometimes, this is enough and I am content. In that little moment, I felt a glimmer of peace, a reminder that I am free to rest without having to earn it.
For me, self-care has never been remarkable. It is quiet. It is unremarkable in appearance, but profound in its impact. I find that breaking this idea into smaller thoughts mirrors the gentler rhythm I want to share. Spa days and costly treats are seldom considered, yet they do have their place. Instead, it exists in the fleeting, nearly invisible moments when I return to myself. It’s the five minutes I sneak to draw without care for how it looks. Or the words I scribble in my journal that will never be read by another soul. It’s stepping outside for a few breaths of night air, letting the darkness embrace me like an old friend. These small gestures are how I create a soft shelter for myself, a place where I can slow down, heal, and begin again.
I believe we are often taught that self-care needs to look a specific way. It has to be glossy, curated, and impressive. But in reality it might be as simple as letting ourselves be, without expectations. When I create, whether it’s a drawing, a poem, or a printable, I aim to include the same intention: an invitation to slow down, breathe, and reconnect. Each artwork I create becomes a reminder to myself and others that small moments are important. They often serve as the starting points for healing.
In the past, I assumed that self-care meant doing more. I tried to make every minute count by fixing, improving, or doing something. But I’ve learned that gentle self-care can sometimes mean doing less, or perhaps nothing at all. It means learning to say, “This is enough for now.” I am enough for now. And in that space, I can hear my heart again.
If you’re looking for ways to practice self-care, here are a few ideas that have helped me over the years.
Simple Self-Care Ideas That Have Helped Me
• Sketch without purpose. Let your pencil wander and see where it takes you. There is freedom in creating without expectation.
• Write one honest sentence. No pressure, no rules. Just your truth. Some of my most honest moments come out this way, in fragments that don’t need to become anything more.
• Sit quietly with tea (or coffee, or water) and do nothing else.Allow the present to be enough. When the world becomes too distracting, even a few minutes of silence may be soothing.
• Print out an affirmation or phrase that soothes you.Place it somewhere you’ll see when you need it most. Sometimes I tape mine to the mirror, or tuck it inside my journal.
• Go outside, even for a minute.Allow the breeze to remind you that the world continues to spin and that you are a part of something greater.
• Take deep, focused breaths. Close your eyes, if possible, and feel your breath travel through you. When everything becomes too much, just a small act of anchoring can help.
• Let go of perfection for a while. You don’t need to be perfect in whatever you’re doing, whether cooking, sketching, writing, or simply being. All you have to do is be kind to yourself.
• Make something just for you.You can create something as simple as a doodle, a few words of poetry, or a note to yourself. It doesn’t have to be shared or finished. You’re caring for yourself.
• Unplug for a moment. Even five minutes away from screens might seem like a mental refresher.
When I think of my own self-care, I see it as a silent commitment I make to myself. A promise to appreciate the parts of myself that are sometimes overlooked. These are the parts that long for peace, for simplicity, for gentle reminders that I don’t have to do or be more to be worthy of rest. This is something I strive to integrate into my work as well. When I produce something, whether it’s a printable, a template, a poem, or a work of art, I hope it serves as a companion to someone else’s self-care journey. May we all find small ways to return to ourselves.
If this gentle self-care reflection speaks to you, I hope you can find small ways to be kind and patient with yourself today. And if it feels right, you’re welcome to explore my shop. It’s a small beginning, and I look forward to adding more gentle offerings over time.
Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.
If something carried my name, it would not be a star, a street, or a species of bird. No, I believe it would be more intimate. I’m not always sure how to define myself. Sometimes I feel like a color. It is not a solid color you find in stores or on paint charts. It’s a blend of several shades at once. It burns slowly before softening into something else.
This poem is the first piece of a new series of poetry, stories, and art called Color Studies: Olivia. It’s a way for me to trace the shape of who I am through emotion, memory, and metaphor. This first piece is the closest I’ve come to naming the in-between shade I carry in my heart.
The Color Called Olivia
There’s a shade I carry that no one’s ever named. Not even the sky has a word for it. It comes after the burn, before the skin peels. It’s not plum. Not violet. It happens after violet, when the bruise turns philosophical.
I wear it like breath— soft, unnoticed, until it’s gone. I’ve been called gentle. But they don’t see how my gentleness and sorrow are barbed wire wrapped in silk.
My laugh has layers echoing through my ribs. They hear it— but not the hush that comes before.
I’m the shade of ink tainted with memory, of bruised hibiscus on the windowsill, of dusk pressed between diary pages. I’m the color of “I want but I shouldn’t,” of loving him in fragments because whole is too dangerous.
They’ll never sell me in stores. Bottle me up. Claim me. I’m the color of dusk over a foreign city, where no one knows my name. I could be anyone. I could be no one.
I’ve always felt as if I exist in between what I desire and what I allow myself to have. Writing this helped me identify that feeling, not with a label, but with a color. I don’t think any of us consist of “solid colors.” We are many things: bruises, washes, and layers. I’m slowly discovering what shades I am, and this is the first one.
If you were a color, what would it be? Or what color do you become when someone sees you?
Olivia's Atelier 